


When You Call Me

by Winterling42



Category: Critical Role (Web Series), UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Multi, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:28:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21609829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterling42/pseuds/Winterling42
Summary: A little less than a year after the events of UnDeadwood, Aloyisus Fogg returns to town with a request...
Relationships: Miriam Landisman/Arabella Whitlock, Miriam Landisman/Reverend Matthew Mason, Reverend Matthew Mason/Arabella Whitlock, Reverend Matthew Mason/Arabella Whitlock/Miriam Landisman
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> me: wow im really sad about Clayton i can't wait to write fix-it fic  
> my brain: time to make everyone else really sad about Clayton for a YEAR

"And we are all sinners, rest assured. Even myself," Reverend Mason paused for a self-deprecating smile and a small chuckle from his audience. "I have been known to commit errors in judgement from time to time. But that is why I am here in Deadwood, folks. Not just to pray for my own sins to be forgiven, but to pray for all of yours as well. God has seen the worst in us, but He also sees the best. What we _could_ become, if we are given the opportunity. That opportunity is right in front of you. It always has been. All you have to do is reach out, reach out for God's grace and--" 

There was a man standing in the back of the church. Mason didn't know how long he'd been standing there. Hadn't seen him come in. But he caught the eye of Aloysius Fogg, and it made him hesitate long enough for people to start muttering. 

"God's grace," he repeated, shaking his head. He didn't look for Miriam or Arabella in the crowd, though neither of them missed his services. He didn't look for familiar faces, but swept his eyes across the humble crowd, refocusing himself. "God is always waiting for us to return to His flock," Mason went on at last, skipping through a large chunk of his sermon. "No matter your mistakes, if you truly repent and seek to live in God's light, He will forgive you." Mason was still staring at Fogg, who was staring back. The man hadn't changed much in the year since they'd parted ways, maybe a little more dusty. He must have just got in to town. 

"Lord be with all of you this week," Mason said, tearing his eyes away from the man who'd so briefly been his friend. "Every kindness you do brings you closer to Him, remember that. Amen." The muttered echo from the crowd was less enthusiastic than usual--not surprising, given Mason's own discombobulation. As the congregation stood and began to file out, he spotted Miss Miriam headed straight for Fogg, skirts hiked up and murder on her face. 

Fogg braced himself against the back wall, but Arabella caught up to her first, put an arm through hers and leaned close to whisper something in her ear. Mason hovered at the front of the church, stuck greeting people as they filed up to thank him or just say hello. Normally this was his favorite part of Sunday service, once all his yammering was done and he could just listen. But in this particular case, on this particular day...

He watched Fogg nod to himself, then duck back out to mingle with the congregation gathering on the steps of the church. Arabella tugged, and Miriam came with her to stand nearby at the first row of pews. Mason was able to excuse himself politely and go over to the two of them, Miriam with her jaw set and Arabella looking nervous. 

"You saw him," Miriam said, low but furious. "Just standing there, cool as a cucumber!" 

"Let's not do this here," Mason made a calming gesture with both hands and tilted his head towards the stairs. Miriam took a deep breath and closed her eyes, holding tightly to Arabella's arm still intertwined with hers. Arabella nodded and blew out a long sigh, glancing back towards the doors. 

"We all saw him," she said, very quietly, as the two made their way towards Mason's living quarters. "The question now is, what do we do about it?"


	2. Chapter 2

It'd been just about a year since they had last seen Aloysius Fogg riding out of town on a horse that he'd (technically) stolen from the town livery. In that year Reverend Mason had struggled to come to terms with everything that had happened in those few days, and all three of them had struggled with their feelings on Fogg. 

The way Arabella saw it, they were going to be crying over _someone's_ body in that street, one or the other. That it happened to be Fogg left standing was just luck, or whatever passed for their luck in those days. She didn't hate him for it, but she didn't trust him either. How could you trust a man who'd shoot the person they'd just killed a snake demon with?

Miriam had stuck to her guns in the days following Fogg's departure. Mason could still remember the ice in her eyes when she'd looked up to see Swearington standing on the balcony, his mouth flat and uncompromising. 

"And don't you think I'll forgive you either," she said, just loud enough for Al to hear. " _You're_ the one who talked him into this. You're just as much to blame."

Swearington had shaken his head, looked into his coffee cup and then tossed the contents out into the alley. "I just gave him the information I had," he said with a shrug. "Up to him what he did with it." 

"You should have at least waited! Given Mister--Mister Sharpe a chance as well!"

"You should have at least waited six more days," Mason muttered, just for them. Arabella looked at him, stricken, but Miriam was still shaking her head furiously. 

"Lady I don't much like being badgered at that volume," Al scowled down at them now, and if he didn't have a gun to hand he would have at least thrown his coffee cup. Mason put a hand on Miriam's shoulder, hoping badly that he wasn't overstepping his bounds. 

"Just the excitement of the night, Mr. Swearington," he said, and it sure was believable enough. "We'll just take care of our friend's body, here." 

Swearington waved his hand dismissively, turning back towards his office. "Yeah, get him outta the street. Put him in the church, for all I care." 

They didn't have much else to do--they certainly weren't going to make Sharpe share bunk space with Farnham, who was still waiting on his last rites and services. So they laid him out in the most sheltered corner of that broken-down old church, and all three of them sat on a mostly-intact pew, watching like the bullet might come out of his heart. Like there was one more miracle waiting in the wings. 

Reverend Mason thought of it like this: these powers were a test of some sort, a gift and a curse both. Fogg might not have passed that test, but that wasn't for Mason to say one way or another. It was up to God to judge him--it was Mason's job to forgive him. So he'd tried, and he really thought he'd succeeded at it, until the man walked back into his church. It was harder to forgive someone standing in front of you than it was to forgive a memory.

"What do you suppose he wants?" Arabella asked, once the door was closed behind them. The upstairs of the church served as Mason's office and living quarters, a humble two-room affair with nothing more than what he needed. Desk, chair, paper and ink. A ledger book to keep track of donations and expenses. Miriam paced back and forth across the office floor, her boots clicking sharply on the wood. Arabella stood with one hand wrapped around the back of the chair, looking like she might need the support. 

"I don't rightly know," Mason, keeping his voice low and steady. "But he did mean for us, or me at least, to see him." 

"Are you going to speak with him?" Miriam asked, still pacing. "That--that--"

"I feel much the same way," Arabella said. "But perhaps we should hear him out. He might be able to tell us something...useful." There was something unsettling about Arabella at times. Something about the intensity of her, how it focused down like a beam of sunlight through a magnifying glass. 

"Things might have changed, in a year," Mason tried not to sound as hopeful as he felt. They'd all felt, at one time or another, the empty space where the other two should be. The quiet nod of Mr. Sharpe, or Aly's gentle laugh. That one had caused the death of the other tore them all apart--and was it too much for Mason to ask to heal at least a small part of that wound? "I'm going to see him. Ya'll are welcome to come along, or not."

"Us two will go," Arabella said, and turned to Miriam, "and we'll report back everything we find. Alright?"

Miriam scowled, a fearsome expression on her pleasant face, and then nodded. "He's lucky I don't walk into that saloon and put a gun to _his_ head," she swore, and Mason believed her. Miss Miriam didn't ever say a thing she wasn't willing to follow up herself.


	3. Chapter 3

Arabella had a letter in her pocket. She couldn't help but keep touching it, as she and the Reverend walked up towards the Gem Saloon. Some months ago, she'd written to a Professor Oakley back in Atlanta, a friend of her family and the one to supply her with most of her books, prior to coming out here. She'd given him a (slightly edited) version of the strange events and stranger beings she'd encountered, hoping for some information or, barring that, some recommended texts. 

She didn't consider herself a superstitious woman, but the fact that his reply had come in on the same coach as Aloysius Fogg struck her as a bad omen. 

Johnny was at the bar polishing glasses, pausing now and then to put one against his forehead--bad cure for a hangover. Dan was leaning against the wall just inside the door, one eye on the window. "Upstairs," he said, as soon as they came in. Arabella was still blinking sunlight out of her eyes. "Corner room on the left. Think he's waitin' for you." 

"Thank you Dan," Reverend said. He took off his hat and, with a glance at Arabella, started up. 

Arabella tugged nervously on the cuffs of her sleeves, pulled at her gloves to make sure they were on right. She didn't want to be here, but the lure of the unknown had always been her downfall. Curiosity and cats, as her mother would say. She let the Reverend knock.

There was a scraping noise from inside the room, a chair being dragged across the floor. Then a familiar voice called, "Come on in." 

When Mason opened the door, Fogg had a gun pointed loosely in their direction from the other side of the room. Arabella flinched back, but Mason only raised his hands to the sides of his head and stepped inside. Then again, he did have more experience standing down armed men than she did. 

"Close the door." Fogg very slowly let the barrel of his gun fall to the floor, and Arabella stepped inside and shut the door behind her. 

No luggage next to the bed, not even a pack of clothes. Fogg had cleaned up a little since they'd seen him in the church, but his shirt was still dust-stained, his rifle lying on the bed the cleanest thing in the room. 

"Mr. Fogg," the Reverend said, lowering his hands with a nod. "It's been a while." 

"It sure has," Fogg smiled, but Arabella could see by the wrinkles in his eyes that it wasn't genuine. "Glad to see the reconstruction went well."

"Of the church? Yeah, looking mighty fine these days." Mason looked in the direction of the church as if he could see it through the wood of the wall, a proud little smile curling across his face. "Even got some regular attendees." 

"I saw." Fogg looked sideways at Arabella, all of them thinking about Mrs. Miriam's absence from the room. "Mrs. Whitlock." 

"Mr. Fogg." What else did he want her to say? "Why did you come back?" 

Fogg nodded, acknowledging the question, though it took him a moment or two to answer. He laid his pistol on the bed next to the other gun and sighed. "What else? Got a job and thought I could use some help."

" _Our_ help?" Reverend Mason asked, and underneath that question was the real one-- _you thought we'd say yes?_ Fogg nodded again, though to which question Arabella wasn't rightly sure. 

"How much of the... the--" Fogg wiggled his fingers, "have you used, since, uh. Since everything?" 

"N--none," Mason looked to Arabella, who was trying to look very calm and not at all guilty. "I mean, there was that time somebody sabotaged the construction work, and I may have...fixed things. But we really haven't been messing with--Arabella?" 

She always was a nervous smiler. "I may have been...dabbling," she admitted. "Tryin' to find our-- _my_ limits, to find out more about what we can do." Both men were looking at her a little oddly, so she stumbled on, "I mean, we can do magic, real magic, I couldn't just forget about it! It's much safer when you're not trying to blow some snake-creature's head off, I've been testing some theories--"

"Why didn't you say anything?" Reverend didn't quite interrupt her so much as he slid sideways into her sentence, and Arabella twitched a sheepish shrug in his direction. 

"I knew you and Miriam wouldn't approve." 

"That's all well and good," Fogg said, and before she wouldn't have thought of him as interrupting either. Fogg had a way of moving the conversation along without pushing too hard, a softer way of pointing things in his direction. But there was always the death between them, jagged and senseless and...sharp. She may have glared at him a little as he went on, "But have either of you gotten anymore...messages, dreams, whatever you want to call them."

"From the Dealer?" Arabella asked, even as Mason shook his head. 

"I haven't heard anything...not since that night, when he--it--they told us to come to the pit." 

"Me neither," Arabella exchanged a worried glance with the Reverend. "Sometimes my spells don't work, or they do something other than what I was intending, but I haven't seen the Dealer again." 

"Well I have." Fogg sat down in the chair next to him, picking up his hat and twirling it slowly between his hands. "Outside Rapid City, I was tracking a man. Don't really matter who or what for. Bout a day's ride out in the bush, I get this vision, same as the ones we had before. He said, 'The game's not over till you're dead.' And some stuff about not wanting to deal a new hand, something being bad for us." Fogg paused, not like he was hiding something but like he was trying to figure out the best way to say what he wanted to say. "It said not to throw away cards you might need. Figured he was talking about ya'll." 

Arabella twisted her hands together, remembering the surge of power that had flowed through her before. That she'd been summoning as often as she dared, just to see what it could do. She didn't like the Dealer--didn't trust them. But there was no denying that her gifts came from that...being, whatever it was. If she wanted to keep them, keep exploring them, she ought to listen to what this thing had to say. 

Even if it did come from Fogg. 

"Since none of us have experienced this...dream, vision, whatever," Reverend Mason crossed his arms, glancing at Arabella for support, "How do we know it's got anything to do with us? There's been no more _happenings_ in Deadwood since you left, Mr. Fogg. Frankly, I'd like to keep all that well behind me."

Fogg nodded in something like agreement, chewed for a second before saying, "There's a town out west, not so lawless as this one but. Pretty close. No one's heard from them in, oh, about three weeks."

"About the same time you had your vision," Arabella sighed. It wasn't a question. 

Fogg tilted his head towards her in acknowledgement and went on, "It's called Devil's Peak. I would'a gone myself, but. What with everything that happened here, I figured it might not exactly be safe to head out alone." 

They all stood silent for a minute or two, listening to the building creak around them. Downstairs, Johnny dropped a glass and cursed. One of the girls walked down the hallway outside, her heels clicking on the floor through the thin carpet. The noise and bustle of the main street was clear even through the window, all the normal shouting and haggling and greetings of Deadwood. Arabella listened, and felt cold. 

"How far is it from here?" the Reverend asked slowly. Fogg relaxed a little back into his chair, even as Arabella felt her jaw clench. 

"Bout three days ride. Used to be the quickest way was to take the train to Buffalo, but lately they haven't been stopping at the nearest station. Been telling people it's Indians." 

The Reverend snorted and shook his head. He was clearly itching for an answer, and Arabella had never known him to be a cautious man. But sometimes Mason's blindness to trouble could put them all at risk. 

"We'll have to talk to Miss Miriam," Arabella said, as softly as she could. It wasn't very, but Fogg only nodded again and leaned over to spit into the piss pot. 

"I figured," he said. "I'll be here till ya'll decide."

"If we don't agree--" Mason said, both hands holding tightly to his arms. "Will you go anyway?" 

Fogg...didn't scowl, not quite, but the expression on his face was far from easy. "I figure if there's something happening there like happened here, and there's a chance there might be folk still living...somebody better go, don't you think?" 

The Reverend let out a long, slow sigh, dropping his eyes to the ground. "I reckon you're right," he said, and everyone in that room knew what his answer would be even if he didn't say it. 

Arabella opened the door and waited for the Reverend to step out first, as much to shepherd him out as to be polite. Just as she was about to close it behind them, Fogg stood and walked over to hold the edge of it for a moment. 

"For what it's worth," he said, mostly hidden by the door. "I'm...I regret what I did. I learned some things since--I was in the wrong. And if you can. Tell Miss Miriam I'm sorry." 

Arabella blew out a long, careful sigh, so that her voice wouldn't break when she said, "He's still dead." 

Fogg let go of the door, and she closed it gently between them.


	4. Chapter 4

They met back in the library of the Whitlock house. Miriam had been living there, off and on, for most of the last year. Nominally as a guest, but everyone except Mr. Whitlock knew that Miriam and Arabella simply wouldn't be parted for the world. Miriam occasionally kept a room at the Bella Union, which she used for business and to keep up with the gossip around town. Reverend Mason was considered to have a standing invitation to dinner at the Whitlock place, which Mr. Whitlock _did_ know about but mostly didn't mind. After all, the Reverend was a charismatic man, and one who was increasingly reputable around town despite his share of shadows. 

It was nearing three in the afternoon when they reunited, Reverend's sermon having been cut a little short by the unexpected arrival of Mr. Fogg. Miriam had put together a tea service, though the food was mostly biscuits with butter and a plate of sliced sausage. Despite her best efforts, fresh fruit and vegetables were a bit of a rarity in Deadwood, at least this time of year. She'd brewed mint tea in a big fancy teapot Arabella had had brought up from Georgia, white porcelain decorated with red and yellow flowers on the sides. It had once had ten matching teacups, and only three of them had broken on the ride up, which Miriam privately thought was a miracle. Three was plenty for today, though she'd stared at a fourth for a long while before leaving it in the cupboard. 

Nursing her own cup in the library, Miriam watched the clock and pretended she wasn't nervous. It was just a good habit to keep sharp, in a business like hers. And she definitely did _not_ jump to her feet when she heard the front door open--she just decided to take a look about, right at that moment. 

Arabella and Reverend Mason took off their hats at the front door, both glancing around for Mr. Whitlock (with wildly different attitudes towards the search--Arabella nervously, the Reverend resigned). Miriam waved them back, and Arabella met her with alacrity, wrapping her in a fierce hug just for a moment. Miriam hugged back, able to feel Arabella shivering despite the heat of the day. Whatever Fogg had said must have shaken her badly. 

Reverend exchanged some polite words with Mr. Whitlock, then joined the two ladies. Miriam pulled back from Arabella, brushing a loose lock of hair out of her face. "Well?" she asked, her voice rougher than she would have liked. "What'd he want?" 

"He says he's got a job," Reverend Mason said with a heavy breath. He eyed the tea a little distrustfully and picked up a biscuit. "One that he needs our help with." 

"Our help specifically," Miriam said flatly, and Arabella nodded. 

"He said he had...instructions. From the Dealer." She looked down at her gloved hands, half on instinct, as if fearing to see the blue-green energy that had raced under their skin. Still did, perhaps, though thankfully more invisibly than before. 

"Fogg was many things, in those days," Reverend said, swallowing quickly, "But he wasn't a liar. I believe he's telling the truth."

"About all of it?" Arabella asked. 

"All of _what_?" Miriam put her hands on Arabella's shoulders. "This job. What's it about?" 

"A town, three days west of here." Arabella was, if not scared, a lot more nervous than Miriam liked seeing. "Said the same thing that happened here might be happening there." 

" _Might_ be?"

"No one's heard from them in three weeks," Reverend said. "Hard to say if it's exactly the same, but better safe than dead." 

"You're going with him." Miriam didn't mean to sound accusatory. The Reverend only nodded a sideways kind of nod, the one that meant she was right, but he wasn't happy about it. 

"I--I think we should consider it," Arabella said. She was still tugging on her gloves, like she couldn't get them to fit. Miriam wanted to take her hand, just so she'd stop, but she didn't. Not yet. "We don't entirely understand these powers, but Reverend's right, Fogg's not a liar. If he says he had a vision, I believe him."

"But if he did, why didn't any of us?" Miriam pointed out. "If the Dealer wanted us to investigate, wouldn't he--it--have said?" 

At that Arabella and the Reverend could only shrug. "I don't think I can stand by while some folks could be in danger," Mason said at last, eyeing the plate of sausage. Miriam absently waved at him to go on as he said, "Even if that may not be the case, if we have the choice to help, I think we should."

"And it's 'we' now, is it?" Miriam asked, only slightly sarcastic. Reverend hurried to clarify, but she held up a hand to stop him. "I understand your point, Reverend Mason." She paused to fortify herself before continuing, "While I don't think haring off on a whim is exactly our best move, I agree that we ought to look into this further. I haven't forgotten that one of those snakes escaped."

Reverend raised his eyebrows and nodded, like he hadn't considered that. Arabella only sighed and sat down in the nearest chair, her long face drawn and thoughtful. Absently, she tucked a hand into her pocket. "If the Dealer's involved, it's possible that whatever their counterpart was is there as well. But how exactly do you suggest we gather information?" Arabella looked up over her shoulder. "If Mr. Swearington weren't our best bet..."

Miriam scowled, but of course Arabella was right. Swearington had been the first one to take the uncanny events of Deadwood seriously, had seen up close the kind of things they'd dealt with. It was reasonable to assume he'd kept his big ears open for information of like events. If only he hadn't had a mouth as big as his ears. 

Thankfully, she had a counter point. "Mr. Swearington's interests don't extend much out of Deadwood. Sheriff Bullock would be just as good at keeping an ear out for things like that, and his people go a lot farther afield than Al's." 

"No reason we couldn't ask them both," Mason said. Always the peacemaker. "You two go look for Bullock and I head back to the Gem Saloon?" 

"How long does Mr. Fogg intend to be in town?" Miriam asked. She added, as acerbically as she could, "I wouldn't want to keep him waiting." 

Reverend gave a worn half-smile, shrugged. "He said he'd wait for our decision, one way or the other. I think I'll be saying yes." He clearly expected more from her than a soft, very lady-like snort. "What?"

"Everybody knows you won't stand by when someone needs help," Miriam told him, not unkindly. "Why, if Mr. Fogg _was_ ever a liar, I'd have said that was exactly the kind of ploy he'd use."

"What's the game, though?" Arabella asked, leaning forward in her chair. "What does he _want_?" 

They all fell quiet for a moment, but no vision appeared, no miraculous answer. If uncanny doings were indeed soft-footing through the Dakota hills again, there was no sign of it in that small room. Only the shared air between the three of them, that had grown so comfortable over the last year. 

"Well, let's see what the Sheriff and Mr. Swearington have to say." Miriam sighed and resettled her skirts. "I won't make my decision until then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to write the next chapter i might....have to actually watch an episode of Deadwood....

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr at [critical-ramblings](https://www.critical-ramblings.tumblr.com)!


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